


Half Moon Bay

by BenLMoore



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive Sam, Bottom Dean, Implied ABO dynamics, Implied Switching, M/M, Mating Cycles, Mpreg, Murder, Non-Human Sam, Overprotective Dean, Victim Dean, Violence, turning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-07 09:51:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 17,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12838650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenLMoore/pseuds/BenLMoore
Summary: After Sam’s most recent death, he and Dean struggle to build a life together despite the fact that they aren’t the good guys anymore.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I heard this song live by the Irish songwriter, Gerry O'Bierne, when he just happened to be in town. Never came through again before he died. I was about 20 at the time and I'm nearly twice that now.  
> The song haunted me through the years until the advent of YouTube and just like that, here it is again.  
> Listening to it again a few months ago, I got so emotional, I wanted to pay some tribute to it. The first iteration of this story was a close interpretation of the lyrics.  
> What I've written here is not. All that remains is the Half Moon and Sam's baying :)
> 
> Hope you enjoy. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S07Xtay-kf8

[ ](https://imgur.com/bXmSNzc)

 

 

 

Menomonie, WI

 

The man on the bed is breathing his last. Still, the room thrums with scrumptious odors: Death, Blood, Fear, Frenzy and another scent that is at once ancient and new. All of it radiates from the sweat of these men, guaranteeing a feast.

Her prize is the troubled, prone one, or more specifically, the fetid wound on his shoulder. In order to complete her mission, she must distract the other man. It’s no small task considering his unerring vigil over the dying one. The fly is young, but instinct provides much guidance to mothers-to-be. For the sake of her unborn young, she circles her mark again.

A rhythmic rattling hum in his chest flares into an outburst of flailing limbs. She keeps her distance, grips the wall with all six feet and awaits another quiet moment, like when the Watcher treats the Sick with poultice and quiet words.

Nothing is more filling than sweet, pink pus oozing between slapdash sutures. And though she could wait, fragrance beckons her anew. She zooms around his head with speed and dexterity to shame any human pilot. Cleverly, she avoids the giant hand that attempts to swat her from the air.

The awake one will not be thwarted. So, disappointed, the fly lands on the silver blade of a knife. There she rests, rubbing forefeet together and reassessing her plan.

In the last hour, Sam’s skin had shifted from cold and stiff to feverish and clammy. Neither condition is a comfort to his one-man medical team.

Dean had done his best for the wound: cleaning and stitching. It was admittedly not his best work, but it had all happened so fast.

Sam slumped against the door, his speech slurred beyond comprehension, eyes crossed and without a mark or trace of what had happened to him.

Dean cleaned the wound again while Sam sweated, thrashed, and growled like mad. Then he’d gone still, breath so shallow that Dean had rested his cheek on Sam’s sternum to be sure his heart still beat. Settled on his knees at his baby brother’s bedside, Dean dropped his head to his trembling, useless hands.

Again, Sam moaned and battered the mattress, his back arching, toes flexing as he swore and then roared Dean’s name.

“Right here, Sammy. I’m here, buddy.”

Baby brother howled as if the fingers swiping the damp hair from his brow was a brand on his now-cold-again skin.

Where the hell had he been? How could this have happened? How could Dean have let this happen? And what was it? What the Hell was happening?

“Fight, Sammy. Come on, dammit. Don’t you quit on me. **”**  
****

Dean pushed back exhaustion as Sam diminished, his fate sealing along with his brother’s. If Sam was gone, he had no one. Without Sam in the world, he was nothing.

Bowie and conjuring bowl lay on the table, ready to deal. Any deal. He’d give anything.

Sam’s face went slack, his breath imperceptible, pulse nil. Dean closed his eyes, bowed his head, though he was far too wise for prayer.

In that moment, the fly lit, gave birth to a litter of 503 eggs, and celebrated with a meal of pus before flying face first into a glass pane.

Twenty hours later, she lay decaying on a windowsill, providing a lovely meal for a host of bacteria.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> with contribution from Karmascars

Dean Winchester drank for three days straight, recovered for another two. He stared at Sam for hours with no coherent thoughts in his head, just a void in his chest.

There was nothing left in the cabin to smash.

If the fly had still been on the cabin's wall, it would have relished in the stench, so familiar to Dean from his years of grave-digging. He barely noticed his own body odor or the body’s odor as he scratched the thick stubble on his chin, stroking the weapon in his lap with the other hand.

Revenge would offer temporary solace, but where to seek it?

No deal had come through.

Cas was FuckKnowsWhere and Dean had tried everything from frantic screaming to whispered pleas. He’d even reached out to Chuck, as if that guy gave a fuck what happened to his creation.

The motherfucker who had done this would get away, because Dean didn’t have a clue where to begin, or the will to start down another dead end. The only reason he was still sucking air was that thing about suicide and Hell. He couldn’t risk spending eternity apart from Sam. So, he kept a meaningless vigil beside his brother’s corpse, drifting in and out of fitful sleep.

 


	3. Chapter 3

When his eyes first opened, nothing meant anything. Nothing made sense.

Then, there was cheap soap, gun oil, leather, and sweat.

Dean’s sweat.

The Impala’s leather.

Dean, Sam's brother, smelled like the car where they grew up together. Or was it the other way around and the car smelled like Dean. In any case, this is who Sam was. This was his anchor.

“Hey.”

No answer from Dean.

Sam’s body relaxed despite his brother’s tense glare and the swirl of noises. Sam cocked his head and listened long before his eyes returned to Dean's pale skin and bloodshot eyes.  

Beneath the distinct Deanness, there was another stink Sam rarely sensed on his brother. He’d often seen it on vics’ trembling lips and could interpret it in a warbling voice. Dean wore none of the classic tells, but the fear pouring from him was unmistakable, even though the only other presence in the room was Sam.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

_This isn’t Sam._

Dean repeated it to himself for the fiftieth time.

_This is not Sam._

Sam was bright-eyed and alert. He'd never shut up this long since he started to talk. (First word the same as his last: "Dean")

This thing wearing Sam’s face was silent as a bone.

It sat across from Dean, shoving more meat between Sam’s teeth. No trace of Sam's overactive intelligence in his hazel eyes.

This thing had opened them a week to the day after Dean’s baby brother died. Its vacant gaze had searched the room until it landed on Dean with a flicker of recognition. It had been the first to speak, but only to croak, “Hey,” in a sleep rough perversion of Sam’s voice.

Dean should have killed it. Should have taken the Colt and acted according to his training.

That wasn’t ever going to happen and he knew it. But he could still call another hunter to come and handle it. He'd tell whoever comes to take him out while he’s at it because if they leave Dean alive he won't be able to stop himself from murdering them and everything they ever loved.

There was only one way to handle this: watch this creature, pretend it was Sam and if it stepped one of his weird, crooked toes out of line, do away with it.

When it awoke, the thing wearing Sam had stared at the door.

“What do you need?” Dean gripped his Bowie in one hand, the Colt in the other.

Sam glanced at the weapons. “Hungry.”

Dean rolled his jaw. “Hungry for what?”

Now, at the diner, Sam sat spine straight, his eyes rolling, constantly checking his parameters, occasionally sniffing the air.

He shoved all the greens to the side of his plate.

“What's wrong with that?” Dean asked. 

Sam shook his head and turned up his nose. He raised a piece of sausage and nodded his approval before tearing into it.

He held up a hand until a waitress came over and eyed his segregated plate with skepticism.

“What is this?” Sam asked.

“Beef sausage.”

“Can I get some more of this, please?” The thing remembered its manners, but pushed the unwanted food toward her. 

Dean caught the plate before she could cart it away. By way of apology, he said, “Fresh out of prison.”

TheSamThing looked at Dean, at their server and stopped mid-chew. “It's no good. Try it.”

The veg was fine, if you like that sort of thing. Dean doesn’t. Sam does.

Did.

Dean put down his fork and slid the plate to the edge of the table. “Yeah. I see what you mean.”

TheSamThing nodded and swallowed his beef sausage, apparently comfortable enough now to speak. "That guy over there. What do you make of him?"

Dean checked out the guy - a trucker-type with Freedom and a bald eagle on his baseball cap - and made nothing of him.

“He stinks.”

“From here?” The redneck was a solid 50 feet away, across the diner and all Dean smelled was grease.

Sam froze again. “Metaphorically. Something about him.”

“I’m listening.” And Dean was - listening and watching Sam tear into the fresh plate of beef sausage Candace exchanged for the  
unwanted food.

“I don't know what it is. Keep an eye on him,” Sam warned and tore into another bite.

“10-4.” But Dean was keeping both of his eyes on Sam.

He could only stomach coffee.

“You know what we need, is a case?” Sam cleaned his hands with a napkin. “I need to get out and kill something, you know?  
Something that has it coming. Just...” (he balled his fist to illustrate) “rip the guts out of something evil.”

Dean stared at Sam’s hands, clenched as if the entrails were dangling from between his fingers and gushing shit all over the table.

“Dean, are you all right?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“What are you talking about?” Sam eyeballed Dean’s untouched plate of food. “Are you sick or something?”

“Never mind. You about done?” Dean stood and tossed a twenty on the table.

The doors to the Impala were open when that guy Sam had ‘smelled’ followed a chick out of the building. Without any obvious  
provocation, he slammed her shoulders against the brick wall.

Sam was between them in less time than it took Dean to register it as an asshole move. He caught Freedom’s fist in his hand.

“You know that thing about someone your own size?”

The guy was an inch or two shorter than Sam, but not intimidated. He sneered and said, “Get the fuck out of my face and mind your own beeswax.”

Then, he let out a blood-curdling scream as the bones in his hand crumbled like pretzel sticks between Sam’s fingers. The girlfriend gaped for a second and then ran away, shrieking.

Sam scrutinized his own hand, the palm, the backs of his fingers: undamaged, unchanged. He backed the first few steps away from the whimpering man, then turned and ran. Dean peeled the Impala out of the parking lot.

When they’d put a few dozen miles between themselves and that diner, Sam asked, “What just happened?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Am I--”

“I don’t know, Sam. What do you feel like?”

“I feel ...” Sam was silent for a moment. “Amazing, I mean ... I didn’t mean .... I was just --“

“Yeah, I know, Sammy. It’s going to be all right.” Dean said to comfort Sam, not because it was true. 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Sam was fine as long as he could scent his brother or hear him. He could concentrate, treat this like any other case.

Even when Dean slipped out of the room to go the vending machine, Sam sniffed the air was to track his scent while he cross-referenced his symptoms with the database of supernatural creatures from their father’s journal. So far, he’d turned up a long list of improbabilities, considering that he was impervious to iron, silver, holy water, lamb’s blood and every herb in their kit.

Eventually, Dean stretched and mumbled something about real food.

“You don’t leave. Got it?

Sam nodded.

When, Dean’s keys jingled through the door and the engine roared to life, panic rushed cold over Sam. He walked to the window, then the door to be sure Dean was still on the air. His scent was faint, but still present. 

Sam stood there for a half hour until his brother was less than a mile away and drawing nearer. Then, Sam went back to the table and opened his browser, able to focus again.


	6. Chapter 6

_“Well, I grew up quick and I grew up mean_

_My fist got hard and my wits got keen_

_Roam from town to town to hide my shame_

_But I made me a vow to the moon and stars_

_I'd search the honky-tonks and bars …”_

 

Sam was singing in the shower again. He’d been doing it all week. 

It wasn’t the tuneless squawking of their youth. That was the last time Sam had been heard doing more than humming under his breath (and it was best for everyone that way). This was deep, sonorous and damn good. 

He was at it all the time: in the shower, in the car, while he was clicking away on the computer. 

Dean fed the singing into his search, but it didn’t turn up anything useful. Sam definitely wasn’t a Banshee or a Siren. Besides the fact that those were chick monsters, nothing else about them fit. He wasn’t a Muse or an Angel either. 

In addition to the singing, he had super strength and an inhuman appetite for beef. Other than that, he was pretty much back to normal. 

Sam stepped from the bathroom with a towel around his waist, drying his hair with another. Dean added another field to his search: the Adonis thing was soaring through the roof. Sam had been built before, but the muscle definition now was out of control. 

But Dean wasn’t going to sit there ogling his brother. Sam, however, appeared to have no such qualms. He stopped cold in the middle of the floor, staring at Dean.

“What?”

“No.” Sam shook his head.

“No, what?”

“No way.”

“That makes a lot of sense, Sam.” Dean typed in ‘disoriented.’

Sam took a few steps toward him and halted.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Sam shook his head, mouth parted, breathing erratic. 

“You okay?” Dean jumped to his feet.

Sam whined and retreated from his approach. 

“All right.” Dean raised his hands in a show of harmlessness. “Freaking me out a little, Sammy.” 

“We need to go out,” Sam said. “I have to get laid.” 

Dean’s double-take was stage-worthy. So far as he knew, his little brother had never spoken those words. It was a call to action that Dean Winchester would never refuse. 

Dean was out of the car and halfway to the door of the bar before he turned to find Sam still sitting in the passenger’s seat conducting a full conversation with himself. Finally, he got out and shut the door. 

“All right, there, Sybil?” 

“Shut up.” Sam brushed past him and into the place. 

Dean had a slug of his beer while his once chronic monogamist little brother put the moves on a table of stewardess-looking chicks. Sam turned his nose up and sniffed around each of their heads, which resulted in a round of laughter. 

He’d have to try that one. 

Sam settled next to a tall blond, wisely exchanging a glance and a word with all of them. He had the goods: Winchester looks, Ivy League smarts, what he lacked in humor he made up for in sincerity and the ability to listen - chicks love that. 

He was always choosy as fuck, but sooner or later he’d land one and spend the entire night warming up to asking for her number.

Or at least that’s what Sam 1.0 would have done. 

Upgraded Sam had his arm around the blonde’s waist in under five minutes. Another two minutes, he was leading this Cameron Diaz double toward the can. 

Dean raised his bottle in toast to the remaining three, but held his ground, still stunned by the new, improved Sammy. And yes, there was the responsibility to be sure Sam didn’t do anything creepier than sniffing girls, which didn’t seem to bother them. 

Less than ten minutes later, Sam slid onto the stool beside Dean and downed the rest of his beer - Dean’s beer. 

Dean could even begrudge him. He slapped his kid brother on the arm and said, “Way to go, animal.” 

Sam studied Dean’s lips like he was hard of hearing. He replied with a whimper and a pinched expression, then turned his sights on the room. 

This time he chose a mark from around the billiard tables: an Asian girl with a pixie haircut. 

They vanished into the bathroom. Dean made a mental note to add insatiable sex drive to the search.

Sam was adjusting his pants, returning from his third round, when Dean caught his arm. “Hey, Cassanova. You’re wrapping up, right?”

Sam peered down at Dean’s hand, snarling like he was ready to rumble. At that precise moment, a girl knocked on Dean’s back and said, “You want to dance?” 

Before his smile could unfurl, Sam stepped between them, towering a foot over her. “No.” 

She shrank back, peering up at Sam like the giant he was. “Um. I was--” 

“He doesn’t want to dance with you.” 

Dean watched slack-jawed as she walked away. It took a few seconds to process how thoroughly Sam had just blocked him. “What the fuck, Sam?” 

“You don’t dance.”

“I’ll make an exception.” Dean started to trail the girl but was unable to pass Sam’s hand in the center of his chest.

“No.”

“All right. You know what. We need to get out of here. You’re not ... This isn’t you.” 

Of course, it wasn’t. Dean had known that for a week. He’d been babysitting this … whatever the hell Sam was, pretending it was his little brother, choosing to believe they would find a cure that wouldn’t kill him, when…

Sam leaned down into Dean’s face, crowding his space enough to make  Dean step back to put a few inches between them. Sam fisted his jacket and Dean slammed his wrists down against Sam’s, breaking the hold. “Back the fuck up, Sammy. I ain’t asking.” 

Unlike that table of flight attendants, Dean was not amused by Sam sniffing his ear. Sam was built like a tree, shoving him was more of a symbolic gesture, but he got the message and gave Dean some space. 

“I don’t care what the fuck is in you,” Dean said. “Knock it off or so help me…” 

Blinking rapidly, Sam nodded and followed Dean out of the club with his head bowed like a scolded puppy. 

As Dean fumbled for the correct key, his body lurched forward, trapped between the driver’s door and the immovable bulk of Sam’s body. 

But Sam wasn’t just holding him there. He bent his knees and pressed a massive boner against Dean’s ass, grinding and growling low in his throat. 

“What the fuck? Sam, stop it.” Dean struggled against his brother’s humping and the unwelcome heat swelling in his chest. 

Sam’s fingers curled around Dean’s hip, a bruising pressure as he crushed Dean against the car. “Oh God.” 

“Sammy, stop it.”

“I can’t. Dean. Fuck.” 

Dean pushed against the frame again as Sam wrapped an arm around his neck, grunting and thrusting in earnest. 

“Sam, buddy. Come on. You got to fight this thing.” Dean pulled on Sam’s forearm with both hands. “Sam, you're ... you're choking me.” 

Sam whimpered and relented enough for Dean to breathe. 

“That’s it. Sam. This isn't you.” 

All at once, Sam released him and backed away. Breathless, Dean turned and clung to the door handle behind him to keep himself upright in case his jellied legs gave out. Sam’s expression was every bit as stunned and violated as Dean felt. Before Dean could think of some funny comment to diffuse the situation, Sam ran off. 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Sam awoke beside a woman who favored Cassie Robinson, Dean’s ex. He didn’t stay in bed long enough to verify whether the black curls strewn across the pillows were her natural hair or extensions. Nor did he examine the depth of the scratches on her face and chest before he crept into the bathroom and scrubbed the blood from beneath his fingernails. 

He gathered his clothes, dressed in the hallway, and rubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth to get rid of the foul taste. The scent of every single woman he’d mounted - five in total - lingered on his skin, but to shower here would delay his escape.

The sun was high in the sky, yet the Impala was no longer parked outside of their motel. Sam washed, tossed yesterday’s clothing into the dumpster, and took a deep breath of the afternoon air. 

He found his brother two blocks away with his back facing Sam as he talked with a mechanic. When the man took a step back, Dean turned and nodded a curt greeting.

Once they’d finished their business, the mechanic gave Sam a final wary glance and walked away.

“Where the hell were you?”

Sam scratched his neck. Where to start.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re back now. Went clear off the deep end there, last night.”

“I don’t know what I am,” Sam surpassed a twinge of longing as his brother’s moss-green eyes glinted in the sun. “But I know what I want. What it wants. The thing in me.” 

“Is that good?” 

“No.”

Dean winced. “Do I want to know?” 

“I doubt it.” 

“All right. Let’s hear it.” 

A couple of cars passed. Sam focused on breathing ran his hand through his hair in an attempt to calm himself. “Those girls. It didn’t want any of them. It was like I had to ... copulate, or I was going to lose my mind.”

“Well, copulate you did,” Dean said. “And you still lost your mind.”

“You were right there. So close. I could’ve --” 

“All right. All right, Sammy,” Dean held up a hand, interrupting the confession. “We’re going to knuckle down and figure this shit out. Okay? I got you. We got this. You and me. We work it out.” 

Sam nodded. Dean had said that countless times before, but Sam’s unerring confidence in his big brother was waning. 

 

…

 

All signs pointed to a routine vamp problem. Sam fidgeted in the passenger’s seat. Should be no sweat, but it was his first hunt since…

“You good?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Because, we can—“

“I’m good.” Sam hopped out of the car and took off in the direction of the unholy stink he’d smelled on all of the bodies the filthy bloodsucker had left in its wake.

There were a few things he hadn’t mentioned to Dean, like the enhanced olfactory abilities. They’d pulled out things that have a stronger sense of smell than humans using other methods, so it wasn’t important. At least that was his argument to himself. 

Sam looked around, utterly alone in the dark wood. He was 16 the first time he outran Dean, but his brother was still fast.

A sniff of the air. Dean was half a mile behind. 

A snap of twig and rustle of leaves. He’d be facing this fight on his own. 

Sam tensed his grip around his machete just as a vampire from the shadows, reeking like week-old sewage. 

“What the hell are you?”

“A Hunter,” Sam answered.

“Yeah, right. And I’m a Girl Scout.” The vamp thing sneered and pointed. “Now, that’s a Hunter.”     

It dove at Dean and Sam leaped between them, growling as he jerked its head backwards and off of its shoulders. 

Panting, he cast the filthy thing to the ground and stumbled until his back hit a tree. There, he slid to the dirt, staring at the body he’d decapitated with his hands and not at his brother, whose horror crashed over Sam in waves.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Dean woke around midnight with the itchy-achy sense that something was wrong. Sam’s bed was empty, as was the bathroom. Panic slammed into Dean’s chest as he grabbed his gun and tore open the door to the hotel room, wearing only his boxers.

The Impala was where he’d parked it. Sam lay on top with his hands beneath his head, staring at the moonless sky and humming the horn part before he started singing low:

“Comin' to ya on a dusty road  
Good lovin' I got a truck load  
And when you get it you got something 

So don't worry cause I'm coming  
I'm a soul man” 

Dean smiled. Whatever this creature was, it had done some hell of a number on Sam’s voice. 

Dean could stand in a shadow and listen to his little brother sing all night. Not that he sounded happy - he didn’t. But the purity and clarity of his voice were intoxicating. Dean leaned back against the brick and let the melody resonate through his marrow. 

Sam stopped singing, sighed and spoke. “Those women I ...” 

Had they done an ample search on Sam’s hearing? 

Whatever this creature or infection was, it was making him better. He wasn’t hurting anyone. The worst he’d done so far was get a little horny and tried to mount his brother. Other than that, though, Sam was turning into a badass - radioactive spider bite style. 

Maybe they didn’t need a cure. Maybe Sam was better off and this whole thing was going to be just fine.

“Dean, we need to find them.”

It took him a moment to figure out what his brother was talking about. “You didn’t wrap it up, did you?”

Sam shook his head.

“Great.” Dean sighed. “I don’t suppose you took names.”

 

 

***

 

They all used variations of the same word to describe their two minutes of paradise with Sam: rough. 

One girl said, “He just, kind of, shoved me against the sink, pulled my underwear aside and… you know. I didn’t say no or anything, but it wasn’t exactly pleasant. I don’t really have a hard time imagining him …”

On Sam’s suggestion, Dean was impersonating a federal agent investigating a serial rapist. It turned to talk about Sam that way. Showing his picture and taking these women’s accounts, he had a hard time keeping the grimace from his face. 

Sam wasn’t like that.

Not his Sammy. Not the real Sam.

None of them had called it assault, but they’d all been unenthusiastic about the encounter. One girl had been visiting from Illinois, but Dean had an address.

The next step on the plan was to watch and see if any of these chicks wound up with a - whatever Sam was - in the oven.

One of them was already a mother of a two-year-old son. Their marital status was the only thing they seemed to have in common, besides being healthy, attractive, intelligent - the kind of chick Sam, or any man would want. 

 

 

***

 

Dean’s scent was the same as its ever been, a bouquet of sweat and musk with faint notes of his greatest loves - the car, the guns, the girls, the leather. Only somehow, it had changed and become a strident aphrodisiac, just as they had two weeks prior.

Sam ran his tongue over the slightly sharper teeth. His swollen cock urged against his zipper as his heart pounded in his ears - blood thrumming his brother’s name. 

“I need to go out, and it’s best if you don’t come.” 

Dean stood between him and the door. 

“Sammy, you know I can’t let you go out alone until we get to the bottom of this.”

The low rumble of Dean’s voice was a marvel.

This was not a human desire. It was an attraction as old as the earth’s magnetism. Stronger than gravity. The atoms enlivening his body were south and Dean was true north. 

And he was so fucking close.

Sam backed away, put as much space between them as the room would allow. “Dean. You need to let me out.”

“So you can knock up some more MILFs? I don’t think so, dude.”

Sam pressed his back to the wall, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, reveling in his brother’s scent as it rushed to his brain like a drug.

When Sam looked again, Dean was watching from across the room. Even in the dim light of a single lamp, his eyes shone like stars, planets, galaxies. “Sam?” 

He took a step forward and Sam turned his face away, held his breath, and tried to dissipate through the cinderblock. The way his brother moved, the sway of his body, the curve of his legs fanned worship into something more aggressive, a fiery need coursing through Sam’s veins. 

Dean. So perfect, so beautiful, too close, wiping a palm over Sam’s brow. 

Sam was incarnate want on shaky legs, blood flooding his mouth as he bit his cheek.

“You okay?” 

To answer, Sam would need to breathe. To breathe would be destruction. 

“Sam? Hey.” Dean patted his cheek, leaned closer, lifted an eyelid with his thumb. “What the hell is going on with you?” 

Sam’s arm shot out from behind him like a striking serpent, coiling around Dean’s waist, drawing him in and crushing his ungodly craving against his brother's thigh. 

“What the—”

Sam swallowed the question. His tongue gave no quarter, accepted no resistance as it forced its way between Dean’s lips. Sam’s other hand cupped the back of his brother’s head, even as Dean pushed against his chest, moaning in protest. Strong and resolute, and utterly vulnerable. 

As Sam lowered one hand to open Dean’s belt, he leaned back and shouted, “Sam, you fucking let me go.” 

Sam snarled, baring his teeth before sinking them into the soft flesh between Dean’s neck and shoulder. 

“No. No, Sammy. No. What are you doing?” He still fought, but with declining conviction. “What did you do?”

Sam growled low in his throat and tore at Dean’s clothes, casting the shredded fabric to the ground.

“Sam.” Dean gripped Sam’s shirt.

Then his fists uncurled, muscles loosening until his body was slack. 

He shuffled along with Sam’s brisk strides across the floor, body heavy and yielding as he was spun and shoved face-down on the dresser. Dean gripped the edges and made another feeble objection. 

“Sam. Fight it.”

The swirl of fair fur around his pink hole beckoned louder still.

He didn’t speak another word. Not even as Sam unleashed himself, shoving his pants below his ass and forcing into Dean’s opening - shouting out in furious agony and relief. 

Beneath him, Dean shivered and muttered nonsense into the wood. 

Sam’s mind reeled, his body relentless, growling, claiming, pounding, vicious as the roiling thoughts escaped his mouth.

“You are fucking mine.” 

The words sopped with spit and the lingering copper of Dean’s blood.

Sam punctuated every syllable of the vow with a violent snap of his hips. His voice was strange, even to his own ears. Still, he demanded, “Say it.” 

His brother’s breath hitched, possibly unconscious with fingers so lax, body pliant. 

“Fucking say it.” 

“Oh, God.”

“Say it, Dean.” There was just enough of Dean’s hair to grip while Sam’s other hand choked him. 

“Fuck, Sam.” 

“Who do you belong to?”

“You. God. You.”

“Not God. Only me.”

Dean groaned. Sam punched his tightly clenched ass, gripped his hips  and released his into him, howling with pleasure. 

The scream Dean echoed was anything but enjoyment. Neither was it normal pain. Dean could withstand an inordinate amount of torture - and while this coupling had been far from romantic and he’d be sore,  if not torn, for days, Dean seemed to be suffering almost unbearably. He writhed beneath Sam, gasping, blunt fingernails scraping the wood as he tried again to escape. 

Considerably calmed with his needs met, Sam tried to pull out, to give his brother space to recover, but he was unable to move. His erection had begun to flag, but was still lodged within Dean and stuck. The surge of panic in Sam’s chest passed into a, instinctive knowledge that it would pass.

All he could do was whisper in Dean’s ear. “So beautiful. So good. So perfect for me.”

Eventually, his brother’s shrieks receded to pained whimpers. 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Sam’s shaft slipped free. He tried to help Dean hobble across the motel room, but his brother hunched his shoulders and scowled. “Don’t.”

Sam hovered outside of the bathroom door, wiping a tear from his cheek when Dean yelled with pain again.

He kept his silence, gave Dean his space, silently procured their meals. On the second day, Sam took a walk to clear his mind when his brother’s scent began to recede in the wrong direction.

Sam had stilled where he stood and let Dean go. It was only fair. He was no longer himself. Would never have hurt his brother that way. Why hadn’t Dean killed him by now?

If he never talked to Sam again, it would be understandable. 

Still, Sam stole the closest, least conspicuous car, followed Dean’s scent, but maintained a respectful distance.

Three days of more failed research. He was neither undead nor a shifter, of those he was sure, although there were some overlaps that couldn’t be ignored. 

Sam spent two days drinking and another day recovering from a close-range bullet wound to the temple. 

Sam should have been dead. He just wasn’t.

On the seventh day, he received a call. Sam answered on the first ring to pitch-dark silence on the other end. “Dean?”

The silence grew thick before a reply came. “Sammy.”

***

The closer he drew, the more that unmistakable essence blended with others, less familiar, but known.  

Sam jammed his foot on the gas, demanding more of the Jetta than it could deliver. Sam had caught the scent of not one, but every single one of the females he’d bred that night. He gritted his teeth at the thought of Dean with them. With anyone

If this was his brother’s idea of teaching him a lesson…

A growl ripped at Sam’s throat. He punched the steering wheel, then stared at the ragged space where the alloy dented under his attack. 

He could hurt Dean, but that’s not what he wanted. 

Still, Sam found himself tearing open the front door to the house. He raged through the living room and up the stairs until he found Dean.

He sat on a bedroom floor. His face, clothes, and hair had once been drenched but were caked now with dried blood. The blade in his hand had seen cleaner days.

At his feet lay the body of the Thai woman Sam had fucked in the bathroom of that bar. Blended with her scent was the smell of all the others, coating Dean and emanating from his skin. His eyes were shell-shock wide, staring straight ahead at nothing. 

Sam calmed his breath and knelt with a hand on Dean's shoulder. Only then, did he see the human heart in his brother's hand.  
  
Sam took Dean’s drawn face between his hands. Dean tilted back his head and bared his throat. Sam pressed his nose to the pulse. The teeth marks Sam had made in that tender spot were scabbed over, a coppery tang beneath his tongue before he kissed them and murmured, “I’m sorry.”

Then he set to work: cleansing his brother and dressing him in fresh clothes from the Impala. Then he doused the bodies and torched the house. 

 

 

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

Then sensation welled up like water filling a leather canteen until Sam thought he would burst. Until he longed to explode, to release the pressure. Then, all at once, the agony receded into discomfort and became the new status quo.

Again, as when he’d been compelled to take Dean, Sam’s canine teeth were slightly elongated. So subtle was the change that only Sam and his family dentist (if they had such a thing) would recognize the difference. 

Sam cuffed his dozing brother’s right arm to the Impala door. By the time Dean roused, Sam was shaking with need, teeth chattering with Hunger. 

“Sam.” Dean sat up straight. “What the hell?” 

Metal clanked against metal as Dean rattled to be free. 

Sam’s hands curled into fists. He strained to deny his lungs, but eventually, breath took him, along with this thirst. He slammed the door, shutting in Dean’s expletives and demands.

Stretching his back, Sam smiled and allowed the luminous beauty of the full moon to soak into his skin.

 


	11. Chapter 11

“Get up.”

Dean blinked up into Sam’s sneering face. He rubbed the groove on his wrist where he’d tried to bust out of the cuff. Dean shook his head, but the previous 12 hours remained fuzzy, at best.

Sam had bound him to the car and run off. Did that actually happen?

“Wake the fuck up, Dean, we got to get out of here.”

‘Here’ turned out to be a clearing in a forest. Dean blinked rapidly and nodded. “Where’d you go?”

“That’s not your fucking business,” Sam said. “You’re going to drive.”

Dean scoffed. “You know what. I’m not, Sam. Not until you tell me —“

Without any warning, Dean's nose made an abrupt and painful meeting with the dashboard. 

“Don’t fucking talk back to me.”

Sam climbed out of the door while Dean worked on breathing. The passenger’s door flew open and Sam dragged him to his feet. There was just enough time to cover his face as Sam shoved him hard against the car. 

“You going to be difficult?”

“Sam.”

“Shut up.” Sam slapped him with an open hand. 

It only stung, but the violence, the manhandling, and the combination of the previous weeks - Dean responded with the only solution he could muster.

The corner of Sam’s mouth curled in a menacing grin. “You going to kill me, big brother?”

They both knew better. “Just… Chill out.”

Dean slid along the frame of the car, backing away before his brain had communicated with his feet, moving on instinct, the same way he had pulled the Colt.

“You’re leaving again?”

“I need…” Dean had no clue what he needed, but being Sam’s punching bag/blow up doll wasn’t going to cut it. “Little time.”

“I’m going to fucking find you, Dean and when I do…”

This was it. Nothing else to be done. Dean cocked the gun and aimed for Sammy’s center. Dean would follow him to Hell before his corpse hit the ground.

“Hey.” Sam raised his hands. 

“No,” Dean said. “After what I did… to those girls.”

It was true. He deserved to die, but what had Sam done? Maybe turned him into something. But Dean hadn’t resisted the urge to do what he did. 

He turned the Colt and shoved it as far between his teeth as it would go.

“Dean!” Sam lunged and had pinned him to the dirt before Dean could pull the trigger. 

Struggling was a waste of Dean’s energy, but that didn’t stop him. He needed to die. Sam wasn’t going to stop him. Wasn’t going to take that justice away from him. 

“How many people have you saved, Dean?”

“You can’t seriously think that makes it --.” Dean redoubled his efforts only to have his hands pinned while Sam sat on his chest. 

“Why did you do it? Dean. Why?”

“Because I…” Dean needed a moment to understand the sickness that had overtaken him. “They were pregnant. Every one of them. God. Fucking let me die.”

Tears streamed into his ears, face burning with the torture of facing his crimes.

“You did it, because you had to. It had to be done, Dean. There wasn’t another way.”

Dean stared into Sam’s stern, serious eyes, stunned silent.

Sam backhanded Dean, splitting his lip. “You ever try that shit again, so help me…”

 


	12. Chapter 12

“We need to talk,” Sam said, keeping a respectful distance on the other side of the room.

Dean shut his laptop and moved to the mini-fridge, returning with two bottles.

It had taken a day for the aggression to subside and Sam to gradually become himself again. Dean’s suicidal tendencies resurfaced sometimes at night, but mostly, he passed the time searching for a cure to a disease he didn’t understand. 

He offered Sam a beer and clinked the necks together. “Go for it.” 

“Tonight’s the half moon.”

“Okay.”

Sam watched Dean swallow and licked his lips. His mouth remained dry. “I’m going to have you no matter what.”

Dean wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, clearly processing and not finding an adequate response. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Sam said. “But there’s a part of me that does … want to.”

“Fucking fight it, Sam.”

Sam huffed, engrossed in the curve of his brother’s legs. The want of them around his waist.

The moment he stepped forward, Dean dropped his beer and took a fighting stance.

“Listen. I can’t stop it, and short of you killing me, I can only think of one solution.”

Dean didn’t drop his fists, but focused on Sam’s face, listening.

“If we … do it, before I lose it. Lose control. Maybe it’ll be satiated and…” Sam approached like he would a wild stallion, slow and cautious. 

He curled one palm around his brother’s neck, the other encircled one of his wrists. Fear and arousal coursed in Dean’s scent - sumptuous and warm. Sam pressed his face to Dean’s neck, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, filling himself with it.  

Dean let out a sigh and the tension in his shoulder slowly ebbed. “Sam."

Quiet as his voice was, it was bound to be a protestation. Sam covered it with his own insistence, sliding his tongue across Dean’s lips, requesting - rather than demanding - entrance. Dean hesitated a moment longer, then opened to Sam like a flower. First he took, then he sucked Sam’s tongue, drawing from him a moan and sending a rush of blood to his groin.

Dean pulled back, breathing hard. “That’s it, okay? That’s enough.”

It was hardly even a start. Sam pressed his hand to the small of Dean’s back and drew him closer. 

“Listen, Dean. I don’t know how long before…” a fresh wave of want coursed through Sam. “This thing is going to make me do things to you… I don’t want it to be like that again.”

“Okay, Sammy. All right.” Dean nodded. “What do you need?”

“Just let me.”

Sam kissed his brother briefly and slid his thumb between his full lips. Dean’s eyes darkened as he swirled his tongue around it.

Sam closed his eyes, struggling to slow the impending change. It had slammed into him the first time, rendering Sam as helpless as his victim. His brother, his lover. His mate. 

Again, Sam replaced his thumb with tongue. As he leaned back to assess his brother’s expression, Dean’s teeth snagged his lower lip, tugging playfully.

“Might as well enjoy it, right?”

Sam smiled, but a low growl rumbled in his throat. He cupped Dean’s jaw with both hands and lapped at his mouth, greedy and unable to sate himself. He whimpered and strained to take more. 

“Okay. Okay. Easy tiger. Take it easy, Sam.”

“It’s coming.”

Somehow Dean couldn’t see the urgency. But at least he was opening Sam’s belt. That was movement in the right direction, as was the palm studying his erection over the fabric of his jeans. Sam ground his hips forward and gripped Dean’s wrist to increase the pressure.

“I want your mouth.” Words Sams would never have said in a rough tone not entirely his own.

Dean licked his lips and slipped to his knees. With eyes upturned and trained on Sam’s, he flicked open the button, slid down the zipper and snapped the elastic on Sam’s jersey briefs.

Sam’s skin rippled under the damp warm breath on his navel.

“Sam, I never —“

“Just take it.” Sam grabbed the base of his cock and shoved his way in.

They groaned in tandem, Sam’s head tilting back as his full length sank into Dean’s mouth, striking the back of his throat. Dean gagged and backed off. 

“Fuck. That’s a big cock.”

“Take it again.”

Dean wiped his chin with his hand and did his best to obey until once again he began to choke. As he tried to back away, Sam locked him in place with both hands on the back of his skull. Dean pushed against Sam’s thighs, but it wasn’t until he moaned and flailed in panic that Sam released him, gasping for air.

“Jesus.” He grabbed his throat, coughing as spit and precise dripped from his lips.

Sam jerked him to his feet and drew a taste of himself from his brother’s tongue before turning him to face the wall. 

Once Dean’s pants were around his knees, Sam gathered moisture from his parted, panting mouth. Profanities spilled from Dean as Sam pressed the pad of that thumb to his entrance. Sam curled a palm around Dean’s throat, holding him still, although he’d made no attempt to escape. That gorgeous, freckled back arched like a finely calibrated bow as Sam breaches him with his thumb’s tip.

“That’s good,” Sam praised and forced in, all the way past that tight ring of muscle before retracting to spit between his fingers.

Dean took the index with only a quiet gasp. Sam twisted his wrist and searched for Dean's prostate. In his haste, only gleaning more of Dean’s soft breaths and not the blissed-out shouts he was after.

Dean clenched around the added middle finger and groaned.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Is it good?”

It didn’t matter. Sam had a destination and he would reach it whether it pleasured his brother or broke him. His transition was a persistent knock on the base of his spine, threatening any moment to rage through his veins like wildfire. If he didn’t enter Dean soon, he’d barrel in like an animal, like he’d done before.

“Dean, I need to.” Sam held his tip in place.

Dean’s stomach tightened under his palm. “Go slow.”

Sam requested his brother’s request and move as gently as the animal inside of him would allow. He entered his brother’s perfect tight heat slowly and remained still for a bone-tingling thirty seconds.

Then, the hell in him was loosed.

“Slow, Sam. Slow slow slow.”

Dean’s pleading revved him up until what little control Sam had snapped like an overstretched rubber band. He unleashed a fury, driving into his brother like a mindless thing, but not void of emotion. He was love incarnate. Deep, abiding devotion. Life and Death dedicated to his mate. This, he whispered between exhalations and groans while Dean only whimpered against the palm over his mouth.

Sam shuddered and roared as he filled his mate. With the beast inside him satiated, he collapsed them together on their sides, humming as he lapped at the salty-sweet skin on Dean’s shoulder. As Sam’s knot receded he began to sing:

_Should I fall out of love, my fire in the light_

_To chase a feather in the wind_

_Within the glow that weaves a cloak of delight_

_There moves a thread that has no end_

 

_All of my love_

_All of my love_

_All of my love to you_

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

Missouri Mosely was already standing on her front porch when the Impala pulled up. She stood her ground without waving or giving any sign of recognition. When Sam and Dean stood side by side at the bottom step, she sucked her tongue and said, “Lord, have mercy. Would you look at John Winchester’s chickens coming home to roost.” 

Dean waited until they had followed her into her living room to announce, “For the record, I didn't want to come here.” 

“That's how you say hello, boy?” Missouri swatted him with a rolled up magazine from her coffee table. “Get in there and make me and your brother some tea... I don't want to hear no complaining about it. Scoot.” 

Dean scowled at Sam. The most he could say for himself was to shrug.

Eventually, Dean resolved to obey and disappeared into the kitchen. Missouri opened her arms and Sam gratefully bent enough to sink into the embrace. “Can you go easy on him, a little. He's--” 

“Oh, honey, I can tell. That don’t mean I’m going to let him be an ass.” Missouri settled in her cozy brown chair and folded her hands over her belly. “When Marguerite was carrying the twins, I told her ornery butt the same thing.” 

Sam slumped on the sofa and dropped his head in his hands. “When he finds out what I’ve done to him... ” 

“What do you think is going to happen?” 

Sam raised his eyes and gawked. “I don’t know how to take care of him. All my life, it’s been the other way around. He knows it. I know it. And yet, I made this mess. I’m ... supposed to be the head of this family, and I have no clue where to start. I don’t know how to lead him, Missouri. I can’t be the Alpha. This is completely backwards.” 

“First of all, Sam, did you bite yourself?” 

“No, but…”

“Did you ever think you'd have a family one day?” 

“Yeah, sure,” Sam confessed. “At some point I might have... fantasized about that. This is Dean, though. Not Jessica.” 

“You love your brother.” 

“Of course.” 

Missouri nodded and eased to the edge of her chair so she could rest a hand on Sam’s knee. “Trust that. And this thing in you hasn’t changed who you are. Or else we couldn’t be sitting here having this conversation, could we?” 

Sam couldn’t refute that or bring himself to agree. She couldn’t know everything they’d done or she would have never answered the call.

Missouri let out a little groan as she heaved to her feet. Sam moved to help her, but she shook her head. “You know how to lead a family, Sam? You find a good partner and you take care of each other.” 

 

***

Dean cooked spaghetti and tennis ball-sized meatballs and ate three helpings himself. He belched and dropped his fork in the center of his plate. “I could really go for ice cream right now.” 

“So, you’re trying to get big as a house, are you?” Missouri smirked, that snarky old bat.

Sam leapt to his feet. “And pie? You want some pie, too?” 

“What, are you going out?” Dean asked.

“You said you want ice cream.”

Dean huffed and Sam retrieved the keys from his jacket. “Vanilla good or...” 

“No, vanilla is not good.” Dean turned up his nose at the blasphemy. “If you’re going all the way to the store, might as well get something interesting.” 

Sam nodded. 

“And of course, pie.” 

As soon as the front door closed, Dean locked gazes with Missouri. She wore this look: amusement crossed with wisdom. It burrowed under Dean’s skin and made him want to choke her, just a little bit. 

“What?” 

“Nothing.” She stood and started to collect the dirty dishes, plates clanging together as she stacked them. “You cooked, I’ll wash up.” 

“Works for me.” Dean sat back and patted his belly, firm and round. 

From the food, not other things. Missouri was still eyeballing him, so he straightened his back and sat upright in his chair. She was still giving him that damn look.

“Listen,” if she wasn’t going to say it, he would. “Your spirits, or whatever it is, tell you that Sam is different?”

“You both are. That’s plain to see.” 

“They tell you what it is?” Dean’s suspicions were growing clearer, but the evidence was all wrong. 

Missouri cocked her head, a lot more grey to be seen in her tidy Fro than the last time they were here. “Something old and new,” she said. 

“So, no? You have no idea.” Dean sighed.

Spirits were unreliable sons of bitches, at best. 

“It don't matter,” Missouri said. “He's still Sam.” 

“Is he? And I'm still me?” The tone of Dean’s voice was harder, more confrontational than he intended, but Missouri’s smug distance had always pissed him off. “You don't have any idea what you're talking about.” 

She didn’t take the bait. Instead of engaging in the argument, she smiled like a Sunday school teacher. “I think I know you both fairly well, Dean. You're in love and you’re afraid.” 

Dean narrowed eyes, but he didn't correct her. It was useless disagreeing with psychics.

  
“You were in love with your brother the first time I met you, before you had any idea what that meant. I said before you were goofy-looking. The truth is, you were starry-eyed and every other word out of your mouth was Sam. John could see it. Everybody can.” Missouri settled back in the chair across the table from Dean. “This is just an extension of that. Can you sense what I'm talking about?” 

He nodded, all the fight punched out of him in one loud breath.

“I know. You’ve had the fate of the whole world on your shoulders, and this feels bigger. Am I right?”

“Yeah.”

“But you don’t have to be afraid of it anymore. You and Sam, you'll be fine. Both of you.” Missouri rested her hand over Dean’s. “All three.” 

Dean’s chewed on his tongue, eyes wide, pulse pounding in his ears, his voice grating his parched throat. 

 “Your spirits tell you that?” 

She shook her head and got back to the dishes. The look was back, but less irksome. “Hunch,” she said and waddled into the kitchen. 

 

*** 

 

Dean kicked off his shoes by the bedroom door. “Ice cream was good.” 

“Thought you'd like that.” Sam cast a smile over his shoulder. 

He lay buck naked, on his stomach, reading some thick-ass book. Missouri hadn’t even bothered assigning them separate rooms and neither of them had protested the assumption. Still, the newness of their open togetherness was settling in Dean’s overfull stomach as he peeled out of his last shirt. “Where the hell’d you find beer ice cream?” 

“Non-alcoholic beer ice cream.” Sam rolled onto his back with a grin, eyes raking down Dean’s chest. “Am I not allowed my secrets?” 

“No.”

It was meant as a joke, but it landed like an anchor. There had already been too many secrets between them. Sam’s brow furrowed in understanding. “Specialty shop in Emporia. Then I had to get a cooler.” 

“Emporia? Jesus. That's what took so long?” Dean popped the top button on his jeans. 

Sam shrugged and repeated, “Thought you’d like it.” 

Dean knelt on the foot of the bed, licked his lips, basking in Sam’s full glory in a way he’d never allowed himself before. He’d always seen his little brother and admired his beauty as a matter of family pride. But he’d never had Sam spread out before him like Christmas morning, dropping his knees a little wider, granting Dean a better view. Hazel eyes darkened and flicked to Dean’s twitching dick. 

Sam wasn’t breathing though, had frozen as solid as if Dean’s eyes were Medusa-green. 

“You good?” 

Sam nodded.

Still, Dean waited a few seconds longer, giving him a chance to rescind and run, if he wanted. 

Sam stayed put, staring, then reaching out.

Dean crawled forward, lowering himself for a moment to press their lips together. Sam tucked his hands beneath Dean’s arms and lifted him until his face was pressed into the headboard. Sam handled him like he weightless. Dean made a mental effort to move his false dignity aside and let lust be his guide. 

Sam opened his flawless mouth and swallowed Dean whole. He moaned around the cock like he’d been starving for it, and Dean’s hips responded without his permission. 

Sam lifted him, spitting out Dean’s shaft to catch his breath.

“I’m sorry.”

“No. I just...” Sam completed the statement by taking Dean again, balls pressed to his chin. 

Dean threw back his head and groaned. 

How close was Missouri’s room? Was she already asleep? 

Dean had a limited supply of restraint. Fucking Sam’s face was too good to pass up. Too good not to moan about.

When Dean was on the verge of coming, he withdrew his dick and slid down the bed so they lay chest to chest, eye to eye. 

Sam wiped his smirking mouth with the back of his hand and Dean pinned it along with its companion to the mattress beside his ear, twining their fingers and plundering Sam’s smile again. 

Sam rolled like the ocean, immense and powerful, but he made no attempt to change their positions or Dean’s pace. 

“You ever done this?” Dean asked in a whisper, nibbling his lobe. 

“Yeah.”

Dean froze. “With who.”

“A few people.” 

“A few?” Dean rolled onto his back. “Guys?”

“Did you want me to lie?”

“No. Just...” What was the problem? Dean stared at the ceiling and tried to get his shit together. “All this time. You never said anything about it.” 

The words blurted from his mouth. Dean took a moment to analyze them and to come to terms with the sting in his chest - a different spark from the heat that had radiated from there just a moment prior. Had he seriously believed that he would be Sam’s first or only? 

He hadn’t expected or believed but allowed himself to hope. “I never had.”

“I know,” Sam said. “I'm sorry... for --”

“Wasn't you.” 

“No, it wasn't. I would never have...”

Dean looked at Sam, tried to unravel the weighty sorrow behind his eyes. Was it regret? Shame at what they were doing?

“Not that way.” 

Dean nodded, kissed Sam again and grabbed the lube from the nightstand. In addition to beer ice cream and blueberry pie, little brother, ever practical, bought a big ass bottle of KY. Whoever said an Ivy League education was worthless? 

Sam flipped onto his belly, ready to take it like a man. Dean slathered a generous glob onto his dick and prepared to enter the Samisphere. He stopped when a firm hand grabbed his wrist. 

“Thought you said you'd done it.” 

“Yeah,” Sam said. “A few times in college. Doesn't mean I don't need any prep.” 

Prep. Okay. Dean leaned back on his haunches. 

“Just... play with me a little.” 

Play? Okay. Dean had encountered more than a few girls in his days who were into anal play. It was the same thing, basically.

“Unless you want ... you know, payback?” 

Was this kid serious? Dean let go of his dick and gaped down at Sam in utter disbelief. “You think I'd want that? To hurt you?” 

“I hurt you.”

“I don't care.” Dean lowered himself over Sam, kissing his shoulder blade, and down every single backbone. 

Then he went back to massaging Sam’s hole with even more caution. “This good?”

“Mmhm.” Sam closed his eyes. “You can slip in a finger.” 

For all of Dean Winchester’s bravery, he couldn’t bring himself to do more than touch his brother and even that filled him with a pulse of heat that fanned up into his tearing eyes. What if he hurt him? What if Sam did regret it after this? What if-- 

“I’m ready.” 

Dean whispered a pep talk to himself, replaced his fingers with his weeping dick, and a sob escaped from his lips. That sound had been welling in his chest from the time they’d kissed. Or for decades. 

Sam turned his head and stared up at him, concern in his eyes, a soft moan driven from him by the slow entry. 

Dean shook his head, unable to answer Sam’s wordless question other than to slide Sam’s hair from his face and twine his fingers in it. 

He wiped away the first wave and the second, but eventually, Dean relented to let the tears flow while his hips rolled of their own precious accord.

Sam gazed into Dean’s eyes like he was made of pure gold. “I belong to you. You know that.” 

Dean gripped Sam’s ankles and drove into him in earnest, hurling them both over the edge in a symphony of shouts and shuddering release. 

If anyone in the neighborhood had been asleep, they were awake and wondering who’d died and been reborn. 

Dean fell on top of Sam’s back. 

“I don’t know if I’m allowed to say this,” Dean began. “But I’ve always wanted to do that.”

Sam rolled over, forcing Dean to dismount so they could lay eye to eye. “You can say anything you want. Anything you’re thinking.” 

“But it’s fucked up, right?” 

Sam cupped Dean’s cheek with his hand and kissed the other. “Why didn’t you ever...” 

“Really?” 

“You never said anything.” 

“That I was fantasizing about my little brother?” Dean scoffed. “I was supposed to say that?” 

“Like since when?” Sam asked. 

“Like, since always.” In for a penny. “My first fucking wet dreams.”

Sam was silent a moment. “I never let myself think about you. It was like ... I couldn’t take the torture of it. Figured you would hate me.” 

“Yeah, well. I didn’t think you’d ever let me... you know, after… and with the, you know …. I figured it would always be me on the bottom, which ... I don’t mind, you know. It’s... Just... you know what I’m saying?” 

Sam knew, and kissed him to shut him up.

After a moment, Dean pulled back. “You know we can’t stay here.”

“I know.” Sam said. “Just thought it would be nice to have something like a home for a while."

 


	14. Chapter 14

Sam followed the directions to the address in Dean’s text to a row of abandoned warehouses. The Impala was parked out front. Nonetheless, he entered with his weapon drawn. 

On Sam’s insistence, he and Dean had quit hunting. Dean fixed cars and did odd jobs while Sam taught all manner of online courses under falsified credentials. It wasn’t glamorous, but both were portable ways to make decent money.

In any case, abandoned warehouses should have been in their past. As Sam entered, his hackles raised at the muffled shouts.

He took the corner slowly, with his back to the wall, weapon at the ready, old habits still alive and kicking. Once he’d confirmed that Dean was standing over a bound and gagged man, Sam lowered his handgun. 

It was 4:00 PM on the full moon. There was only one explanation: “Is this you bringing me dinner?”

Dean chuckled. “Something like that. This scumbag deserves… whatever bad happens to him.”

Sam regarded the wide-eyed, shivering scumbag in question. He’d already been thoroughly beaten, bound, his mouth covered in electric tape. Dean’s classic interrogation set up.

“Why don’t you tell my brother what you’ve been up to?” Dean ripped off the tape and punched the guy’s already bloodied, swollen face. 

Dean looked at Sam’s, no doubt disgusted expression. “Sorry. I’m mistreating your meal?”

“No, I…” Sam started. “I can’t… It can’t be him.”

“Why not? He’s awful, Sam. I’ve been watching him.” Dean kicked him in the knee and the man howled. “It was hard not doing it myself, but I assume you’ll want to chase him or something.”

“You remember last time?” Sam asked. “You know the saying, you are what you eat?”

Dean’s chin rose in comprehension. 

“That asshole trucker. I…”

“Beeswax. Yeah.” Dean nodded. “I figured as much.”

“All that anger and aggression in him, it consumed me, and I … I can’t… have that in my mind. Not even for a day.”

“Can’t you fight it?”

“I’m dealing with enough dark as it is. It can't be this guy, Dean.”

Dean looked again at his offering. “So, what do we do?”

“I’ve found a—”

“Donor,” Dean said.

“Yeah.”

Time was growing short. Sam needed to get into position if his plan was going to work.

“What do we do with him?”

Dean’s catch was trying to crawl away. He asked once more, “You sure?”

Sam shook his head. “Can’t.”

Dean sucked his teeth, raised his gun and shot the guy in the forehead. Once. Clean.

Sam’s mouth fell open as if he’d never seen anything like it in his life. As if his entire life hadn’t been variations on that scene. He looked away from the tidy bullet hole in the man’s face.  
If he never saw that again…

“What?” Dean spread his arms as though they were harmless. “We’re about to be parents. I couldn’t just turn him loose.”

 

***

They sat outside of the house, watching from the car as if fate would release them if they remained silent enough. 

Finally, Dean broke. “You know, what I can’t figure out is why I haven’t turned. I don’t feel anything. I mean… you bite me… way too fucking much.”

“I’ve thought about it. I bite you…” Sam hung his head. “When I’m not fully in control. When… my condition is… You know.”

Dean nodded. He could tell whether it was Sam or his condition doing the fucking when things got more … vigorous. 

As in, ‘Holy crap. Slow down, Sam.’ And all he could do was grapple to hold the bed, or the carpet, or wherever Sam chose to toss Dean while fucking him within inches of his sanity.

So yeah, vigorous. Sam had only taken him that way four times, but biting happened. Every time, without fail. Dean would miss the fangs as much as he would beg Sam to ram him if a Half Moon ever passed without Sam ‘needing it.’

“My theory is, the bites haven’t made you fully what I am. They’ve only…” Sam hesitated. “Prepared your body to carry our child.”

“Yeah. I got that.” Dean couldn’t help pressing his hand to his belly and sighing when Sam rested his long fingers there, twining their hands together.

It was chick-flicky as Hell, and it felt fucking good.

Sam kissed his neck and whispered, “Can you please just go back to the motel?”

“This is what you are; it’s what we are.”

Sam shut his eyes and bowed his head like he was in prayer. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“Hey.” Dean slugged his shoulder. “You forgetting who changed your diapers?”

“This is a little worse,” Sam said, but he was smiling. 

“It’s all relative.”

They’d returned to a death row silence when Sam inhaled sharply.

“Go time?”

“Almost.” Sam wiped his palms on his pants. “Do you know why I chose him?”

Dean shook his head. He didn’t want to discuss the details, but if confession made this easier, he wouldn’t shut Sam down. Dean’s sins were darker and far heavier than eating to survive. He sure as shit didn’t want to talk about it, but Sam was cut from different stuff.

“That asshole is still with me,” Sam said. “The first one. Maybe it’ll always be like that. … I’ve been trailing this guy. Hacked him. He’s… a good man. Good father. Loves his wife.” 

Dean stared out of the windshield. “I’m not your wife.”

Sam’s laugh was equal parts sob.

Come on.” Dean smacked his thigh. “Let’s do this.”

“You know it’s not too late to—“

“If you say it again, I will.”

 

***

Sam’s guy, Leonard Fishman, wasn’t much to look at with his pock-marked face and stumpy body, but that’s just what Dean was doing: looking down the barrel of his gun at him.  
Sam curled his long fingers around the steering wheel while, in the backseat, Fishman penned the letter Sam had instructed him to write. 

Occasionally, the guy glanced up, looked at them and asked an unanswerable question like, “Why are you doing this?” 

There was a bit of begging them not to, but mostly, he made the brothers swear that his family would be safe.

While Dean kneaded the base of his neck to calm him, Sam scanned the letter like he was proofreading an essay. He sighed and nodded his approval. “You have any accounts or anything she needs to know about?”

“I don't hide things from my wife.”

Sam folded the paper and slid it into an envelope. “Is there anything else, Mr. Fishman? Anything we can —“

“Not your bestie, Sam,” Dean said. “Enough talk. Get it done.”

Fishman drew in a breath but didn’t start in on the groveling Dean had expected. Fucking brave, not just for a civilian, but for anyone who’d been told, point blank that they wouldn’t be walking away. 

Dean nodded his admiration. Leonard Fishman was the kind of man he'd choose to eat.

Sam declined the offer of the gun. Even if Fishman ran, normal Sam could have chased him down in a matter of seconds. This Sam? He’d be merciful and make it quick.

He held open the back door, a perfect gentleman. Dean walked with them to the mouth of the forest. 

Sam turned. “Dean, please.”

They’d been arguing this point all day. Dean sucked his teeth, got into the Impala and watched his brother march this high school teacher, or whatever he was, into the woods before driving a quarter mile away.

 

***

 

“Mr. Fishman,” Sam said solemnly, watching the moon rise and glow. Within an hour, he’d have no control over how he took his meal. “I want you to know, I take no pleasure in this.”

“Then, why are you doing it? Sam, right?” Sam’s prey ventured. It to was a bold and smart tactic. “You don’t have to. Is the… the other man. He’s putting you up to this?”

“No. No, it’s nothing like that.”

“He’s your lover?”

“Yes.” Sam sighed and stopped himself from saying more. Then the words spilled out on their own. “And my brother.”

“Okay.” It must have required a great deal of self-control to maintain his calm at hearing that revelation, but Mr. Fishman presented an unperturbed front as if he had been a trained psychologist rather than a tenured ethnomusicologist. 

Sam returned the man’s tight, noncommittal smile. Why stop there? “And he’s carrying my child.” 

At that, Mr. Fishman stopped responding. His wide, sad eyes conveyed an understanding that he was standing in front of a very rational-sounding madman. His chances of survival were slim. 

He was right about that last point. Sam nodded, apologized again, and got it done. 

 

***

 

Sam’s text came five minutes later. By the time Dean had returned to the drop-off point, Sam’s face was set. Fisherman’s body was wrapped in black plastic trash bags. Everything was perfectly clean.

“You good?”

“No.”

Dean tossed the remains into the trunk. 

On the way back to the motel, he glanced over at Sam a few times but didn’t speak. Neither of them did. What was there to say?

Midnight came and went. The full moon struck its zenith and promptly began its descent again. Sam sat with his back to the headboard, his head bowed, hands folded in his lap. 

His theory appeared to be working. They’d gotten the jump on his… craving. He wasn’t freaking out, needing to run off. His beast was fed. They could handle this properly with a little organization and planning. 

Sam silently read Leonard Fishman’s letter again by the flickering light of the man’s pyre. It would become a tradition; Dean could already sense that. His little brother wept in the passenger’s seat of their car while Dean slipped up to drop their victim’s last words into the mailbox. By the time his wife received and read them, the Winchesters would be three states west of here.


	15. Chapter 15

 

Sam always sang in the shower now, and Dean always stood by the bathroom door, reveling in it. When Sam knew he was there, it was Zep or Cream or Sesame Street: anything to make Dean smile. 

Dean smoothed a hand down his shirt as Sam toweled himself dry. “This is weird.” 

“It’s not weird.” Sam kissed his cheek and left a wet trail on his freshly shaved cheek. “It’s normal. And it’ll be nice.”

They’d told their guests to bring nothing, but each arrived with an expensive bottle of wine. There were only the four of them, their immediate neighbors, but that was more than enough people for Dean to be overwhelmed. 

He set up shop behind the grill and gladly doled out meat while Sam chatted up the company. 

But there came a time, when all were fed, that Sam stood behind him with hands on both shoulders, whispering, “Come on.”

He tried to coax Dean into his lap on a chaise lounge, but Dean punched his arm and took his own seat, letting the flame from the fire pit lick his face. When he bought it home, he’d told Sam that it was a classic homo accessory, but sitting in front of it was pretty damn quaint. 

Someone said something. The others laughed. It was nice and normal. Sam’s hand was on his thigh and nobody seemed to notice. 

Gloria from the house on their left offered Dean a beer which Sam intercepted. “He’s cutting back.” 

The guests did the obligatory complimenting of the house, which was mostly Sam’s doing. They’d asked what in the salad came from the garden, which was Dean’s baby. Never would have thought he’d have a green thumb, but it was like therapy having his hands in the dirt. Watching things grow while something inside of him was doing the same. More than once, he’d caught himself thinking about that just before tears got loose.

Gwen from the house on the right asked, “So, which one of you was Winchester first?”

“He was.” Sam smiled. 

“How’d you guys decide?”

“It wasn’t difficult, actually.” Dean grinned. 

They'd jumped off the hunter radar, but decided to stick with Winchester for (Dean’s) sentimental reasons. You can't bring a kid into the world under an alias.

“Dean, are you still with that mold remediation company?” Gwen’s wife, Roxanne asked. “I’m almost certain my office has a problem.”

“Actually, I quit.”

Actually, Sam had insisted. He’d sworn he could smell the remnants on Dean’s skin and in his hair, even after he’d showered. It was less of a hassle to look for something different than have to put up with Sam’s bitching every day after work. 

“Too bad.”

“Yeah.”

‘You don’t have to work,’ Sam had said. ‘I’ll take care of you. You can sit on your ass and watch soaps all day.’

As if being pregnant meant Dean wanted to sit around on his ass all day. And Dean gave Sam an earful about what a crock that was.

“How long have you two been together?”

“Feels like forever,” Sam answered. “In a good way

Dean continued. “We grew up together.” 

“We were... close before we ever ... you know, realized we were gay.”

Dean swallowed his tongue rather than contradict, but if Sam fell off the planet tomorrow, he'd never have another man.

Of course, if Sam fell off the planet, Dean would nosedive after him, so that point was moot. He could admit, if only to himself that he hadn't even turned his head to look at another body since Sam had... worked his magic 

Knocked him up

It was insane, even by their standards.

“Well, you're both adorable, and adorable together. You ever shoot?” Roxanne asked.

“What?” Sam and Dean asked in unison.

“Films.” 

Gwen explained. “You guys may not know, Roxanne is a director.”

“You mentioned,”  Sam said and flicked a grin at Dean, whose stomach was still in his throat.

“I dabble in porn. Strictly boy on boy, so…”

“Oh,” Sam said.

Dean’s brow shot up. Hadn’t seen that one coming in their well-behaved suburban circle.

“Not now,” Gwen said off Sam’s coughing and fidgeting fit. “After dessert.”

Sam's blush was lighting up the night.

“I’m kidding,” she said. “Just something to think about. You would be perfect, though.

Roxanne nodded. “Our clientele is mostly women and they want hunky romance. We could make up a story—" 

“Lesbians?” Sam asked.

Dean leaned forward, chin on his fists, to get the full details.

"A lot of them.”

“But—"

Gwen held up her hands. “Don't get her started. We'll be here all night listening to theories on female sexuality.”

Dean shrugged and invited Roxanne into his office (by the grill) to discuss all the theories, if only out of scientific interest.

Of course, it was Sam who rattled his fork against his wine glass, because he was taking too cozily to this whole gay lifestyle. Once he had everyone’s attention, he made the announcement just the way they’d planned. 

All the women cooed as if there was already a baby in the room. 

“By baby, you mean baby?” Steve from the house on the left asked. 

Sam nodded and took Dean’s hand. Dean resisted the urge to pull away. They were out and it was safe, but he’d never been a fan of hand holding.

“You know, speaking from experience,” Steve said. “It’d be a lot easier to get a third or fourth grader.”

“Shut up, Steve.” His wife, Gloria, punched his arm. “I think it’s fantastic. And if you two need anything at all. We’ve still got a lot of the kids’ clothes. I might even have an old car seat, if it’s still up to code.”

“Thank you, Gloria,” Sam said and squeezed Dean’s fingers. “We’ll probably take you up on that.”

“So, is this a plan or a possibility?” Roxanne asked.

“It’s a done deal,” Dean answered and it was good to have one hand in Sam’s and the tongs in the other. It kept him from touching his stomach, which was starting to look like he needed to lay off the late-night burritos.

The plan was, once he really started to show, they'd say that he was visiting parents or skydiving in Bermuda.

“Is one of you the donor?”

“We’ve decided not to disclose that,” Sam said. “The child will be both of ours.”

All of their guests nodded.

“Due date?”  

Sam looked at Dean. How the hell was he supposed to know? The lore was that were-babies gestate 3 months, which was about where Dean was. But did that apply for male-mothers?

Thinking about it gave him a headache and anyone they could consult would kill them if they knew. “We’re going to let it be a surprise.”

“Well, it’s wonderful.” All glasses rose heavenward as they toasted the future Winchester.

By all accounts, the party was a success. Everybody left with smiles and hugs and promises to do it at Gwen and Roxanne’s next.

Dean closed the door. 

“Which of them?” He asked because he couldn’t help himself. 

“Neither one of them is remotely interested in us.”

“Not necessarily true. Gwen is bi and Roxanne would film a threesome.” 

Sam didn’t even pause to consider it. “No.”

"It was hypothetical.”

“No. Not while you're pregnant. Not after. I’m never going to be able to tolerate you with someone else.”

“You know what's weird?” Dean asked as Sam curled a palm around his neck. “She's hot, right. They both are, but… nothing.”  He shook his head at his cock.

“Good. Keep it that way.”

“You're jealous?”

“Yes, I am.” Sam’s fingertips pressed tightly against Dean’s carotid artery.

“That's cute.”

A low growl sounded in Sam’s throat.

“How about, to mix it up, you take the blonde, I’ll take the nerdy one.”

“How about, you take what you got.”

“Deal.” Dean ducked low and grunted as he lifted Sam over his shoulder.

He didn’t try often, and it was always a shock how fricking heavy the guy was.

“No! No, Dean. Put me down, right now. You’re not supposed to be exerting yourself.”

“Shut the fuck up, Sam.”

As soon as Sam’s feet hit the hardwood floors, he slipped to his knees. “Let me take care of you. Daddy.”

Number one on the list of things that should not be hot sent a searing spark through the center of Dean’s chest. He ran his fingers through Sam's silky mane and let the tip of his tongue peek out to watch the elegant fingers working his zipper open. 

 

***

 

Sam leaned into the firm and gentle hand on his cheek, even as he bowed to plant a kiss on the tip of his brother’s cock.

Dean’s smile was all appreciation and anticipation. And Sam would drag this out forever to keep that look on his face. To wipe away all the concern and uncertainty that had crept into him in the last weeks. 

It was unclear whether he was more worried about becoming parents or the mechanics by which that would take place. If he could, Sam would have done it himself. As it was, he could only worship his brother’s beautiful cock, let Dean rub it all over his lips, his face, and moan with gratitude that Dean would ever touch him again.

Or even let him close, as tainted as Sam was. It was more than he deserved and he wallowed in it, took Dean’s want into his mouth, gorged on his brother’s desire, yearning for more. 

Dean breathed his name like a psalm, petting him like a blessed artifact. His eyes. Those enchanted emerald eyes on him, without judgment or fear, although he knew what Sam was and so much of what he had done.

Sam bowed his head and let his tears flow.

“Hey.” Dean cupped his jaw and leaned forward to whisper. “Let’s go to bed. It’s been a long day.”

As the larger spoon, Sam tucked his knees into the grooves of Dean’s, wrapped his arms around his lover’s chest and buried his face in his hair. He treated himself to a huge draft of shampoo and charcoal smoke. Dean’s sweat lingering beneath those scents beckoned Sam for another deep breath of him.

“You good?” Dean asked, voice slurring. “Got everything you need?”

He meant for his excursion the following day, but Sam nodded and held him tighter when he said, “Everything.”

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

Dr. Jordan Masters, world-renowned obstetrician had written several books that bridge the gap between traditional midwifery and a modern Western approach to childbirth. Sam had read them all. 

Her steps were brisk, silver hair trailing behind her as she moved toward her car in the dim light of the street lamp outside of her building. 

So far, no knowledge had not been transferred from Sam’s prey, only the most base emotional tendencies. Still, it couldn’t hurt to imbibe the calm and level-headedness that he’d require to be present for Dean when the baby came. 

The lore said three months. It had been three months. Dean had been tidying like a madman and had hardly left the house to get the mail in the previous week. It would be soon. 

“Dr. Masters.” 

The woman spun, startled. Her apparent assessment of Sam was that he was large, but no threat. The smile was genuine, but she maintained her distance. The hand on her car door still hadn’t dropped. 

“I was wondering if I could talk with you about … a very unique case.”

She glanced back at the building. The parking lot was empty except for her car. “Are you a student of mine?”

“Uh. No, ma’am.” Sam’s hands were in his pockets. 

She glanced there, likely fearing a concealed weapon. Oh, she had no idea. 

Still, Sam dropped them at his sides and gave her a small smile. 

“You know, you could always send an email.”

“I have, actually.” Sam cleared his throat. 

“It’s rather late, isn’t it…” The pause was for his name. 

“Sam. Sam Winchester.”

“Sam, if I could ask you to return tomorrow, during office hours.” She smiled again, clearly certain that she was about to get into her car and drive home. 

The following day would be the full moon. Sam was determined, for the rest of his life, to get the jump on his condition. To feed before it became a frenzy. To choose and study his victims. To end their lives with swift kindness and to fill the process with as much dignity as possible. It was the least he could do. 

“How’s this?” Dr. Masters said. “I take lunch at 2. Meet me at my office and we can discuss this unique case of yours.”

Sam looked at the card she’d pressed into his hand, stepped back and allowed the woman a final night with her husband and their three Huskies.

Dean would never allow them to have dogs. Sam had always wanted at least one. Now, they either cowered or growled in his presence.

Sitting in his rented car, he thumbed in a text. 

SAM: Looks like I’ll need one more day

DEAN: Trouble?

SAM: No. Just securing loose ends.

DEAN: 10-4

Sam smiled. Dean still hated texting. Always kept it brief.

SAM: Love you.

DEAN: Me too

 

***

 

Dr. Masters dabbed her mouth with a napkin and took a deep breath. “A film project?”

“Yes ma’am,” Sam said. “We just want to make everything as authentic as possible.”

“Well.” Her grey eyebrows had a habit of rising while she deliberated. “Most film treatments of this sort of thing would have the … man giving birth … they’d just give him a Caesarian, wouldn’t they?”

“Yes, I suppose so. But that isn’t…” Sam didn’t even want to think about it. “It isn’t ideal.”

“So, let me get this straight.” She scratched her forehead. “His womb is where, precisely?”

“It’s…”

“Well, that’d be the first thing you want to establish.” Dr. Masters blew the soup on her spoon before slurping it between her wrinkled lips. 

Sam wiped his mouth in contemplation. 

“Once you’ve established that, you can decide whether you want the birth to happen via the penile canal or rectally. Those are, of course, your only options, although with fiction, I suppose it could crawl right up through the esophagus, couldn’t it?” She laughed. 

Sam attempted a smile. 

“Then, you have the Alien approach, but that has been done right to death.”

He nodded, infinitely grateful he’d not started on his salad. There was only coffee in his stomach, sloshing like it might spurt up through his esophagus.

“It’s an interesting idea.” Dr. Masters smiled. “I hope that was helpful, Sam.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He faked another smile.

“I look forward to the final product.”

Sam sat on a bench outside of the Drexler building, Dr. Master’s wing. People had seen him with her. He’d mixed urgent business with more urgent business, pushed the envelope on his timing and developed a personal connection to his prey.  

Mistake after mistake. 

The itch was beginning beneath his skin. The gourd of his psyche filling with something other than Sam. 

He glanced at his watch again: three hours before the moon would reach its peak. The doctor still hadn’t left her office. Work-addict. Sam didn’t want to be like that. He wanted to be available for his family. A present father. A dedicated mate. 

Sam ran his tongue over his teeth, stood up and stalked around to the back of the building into a deep shadow. He leaned against the cool, brick, squeezing his eyes against the minute changes. The lengthening of his eye teeth. The shiver over his spine accompanied by the bristling over every hair on his body. Senses acuter. 

Sam Winchester would slip away and his Condition would take over. It needed to be now. It needed to be … 

Anyone. 

The nearest body was soaked in marijuana.

Nearly anyone.

Sam let the scents waft to him, finding fault with each one. Until it was too late. 

The need came over him and he charged the next body that neared the shadow. A rush of adrenaline coursing through him like a drug just before his consciousness shifted.  ver

 

***

 

As it had been the first time, Sam awoke in the woods with blood on his clothes, on his hands, coating his tongue. 

He had failed. 

He sat up and tried to gather himself. Failed. 

Wept and trembled on the frosty leaves. 

One of his shoes was missing. 

He finally dragged himself to his feet, kicked off the remaining shoe and began to hobble toward …

What? Where was he going? Where was he?

The farther he wandered, the heavier his body became. His feet were freezing. Bones racked with cold. 

Finally, he came to a stream where he could wash his hands and watch the crimson float away in the icy water. He peeled off his drenched shirt and used it to wash his chest and arms. Better to be found naked than covered in blood.

Whose blood?

Who knew?

As Sam began to step out of the pants, he pulled his phone from his back pocket. There were message alerts from Dean, but no reception to listen. The only text from him read: 

DEAN: Come home now!

 


	17. Chapter 17

Sam sat outside of his home, gripping the steering wheel of his rental. He’d gone through as many of the motions as he could: burned his clothes. It was too late to recover the body. There was already a crime scene with yellow caution tape spread out around the dumpsters at a loading dock. 

Sam didn’t have his partner or the courage to approach and investigate. They’d destroyed the fake IDs. They were supposed to be starting a new life that Sam had now destroyed. He didn’t even ask any of the gathering crowd what they knew. He backed away and walked to his car.

Dean was going to be beyond livid. 

Sam dropped his head onto the wheel. He couldn’t go in there. Couldn’t admit to how badly he’d bungled everything. But Dean wouldn’t be surprised. He’d know that Sam was a failure. He always fucked up everything. 

It was nearly an hour before Sam had collected himself enough to drag himself through the front door. 

He smelled it immediately: blood, and shit, and something new. 

Sam tore up the stairs into their bedroom to what looked like another murder scene. The bed was covered in blood that trailed to the bathroom. 

Dean sat on the toilet, chewing on his fingernail. His eyes rose to meet Sam’s and then shifted to a bundle of towels in the sink.

Sam dropped to his knees, buried his face in Dean’s lap, plastering tear-soaked apologies to his cold legs.

“It came last night.”

Sam took a moment before rising to his feet. And another few before he peeled back the reddened fabric to reveal the squirming, softly yelping palm-sized creature. It was shaped like a human infant and covered from head to toe with a thick, chestnut-colored fur. 

Sam brought it to his face and stroked a finger down its back. It mewled and curled into a protective ball. 

“Is it still alive?” Dean asked.

“It’s a girl. She…” Sam took a brief survey of the room and filled in the blanks. 

Dean’s bloody pajama pants discarded in the corner. His relatively clean thighs, reluctance to leave the bloodied toilet seat. It must have been a rectal birth. 

Sam searched for a fresh towel to wrap his daughter. 

“What are you going to do with it?”

He narrowed his eyes at his brother and growled, “You take a shower.”

 

***

 

Sam had cleaned everything. Had put the mogwai in a salad bowl lined with socks and other scraps of fabric. All the clothing Gloria had given them was for babies. Human newborns. This thing was a tiny monster.

Dean should have known. Everything about this was cursed. Did he really think he was going to be allowed to love Sam like this, and have a baby, and be fucking happy? On what planet were Winchesters allowed to be happy? In what dimension? Because it sure as fuck wasn’t this one.

A snap of the neck would be quick and painless. He didn’t want to kill the thing, but one of them had to, and Sam sure as shit didn’t have the cojones. 

Dean scratched his chest and his finger came away wet. Small, damp circles were pooling in the fabric of his t-shirt.

“You need to feed her.”

“The fuck…” Dean stepped back.

“Dean.”

“I’m going to touch that thing one last time.” As he inhaled to gather his wits, Sam blocked Dean’s view with his body.

Just when Dean was sure it would come to blows or (if Sam had his way) a long drawn-out discussion, Sam dropped his head and sobbed, “Please.”

Badass Sam wouldn’t cry with a gun to his head. Normal Sam wasn’t this kind of wussy either, which only offered one explanation. “Who the fuck did you eat?”

“I don’t know,” Sam bawled. “Please don’t hurt her.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know. I thought you had it worked out.”

“I did, and then…” Sam shook his head.

“Jesus, Sam.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I fuck everything up. Please don’t hurt my baby.”

Dean hobbled out of the room. Needed time and space to figure this the fuck out. 

An hour later, when he limped into the kitchen, Sam was feeding the thing with an eye dropper. He raised his eyes at Dean and then lowered them again, cradling the little furball closer to his chest.

“That thing—“

“Is your child, too. Sugar water is not going to cut it,” Sam said. “She needs nutrition.”

“What ‘she’ needs is a bag of rocks.”

“Ylva.” Sam was still sniveling, but he stood with his spine straight. “Her name is Ylva.”

“Why are you naming it?”

“It’s Swedish.”

“Yeah. Looks just like Elin Woods to me.” Dean sucked his teeth and moved to the fridge. 

It was no use talking to Sam while he was still hopped up on whatever helpless crybaby he ate. 

Ylva. What is that even supposed to mean?

Sam went back to feeding his pet. Dean scratched his nipple and shook his head. “You can’t keep it, Hagrid. You know that, right?”

 


	18. Chapter 18

Sam woke in the too-small bed in the guest room. Looking at Dean turned his stomach. His skin crawled with self-loathing. The only good thing on earth was… 

gone

He leaped from the bed and tore across the house, only stopping when he found his brother on the sofa with his shoulders hunched. The tears welled up in Sam’s eyes as he approached. 

If Dean …

It would be so easy to kill his brother with his bare hands. Sam had been the stronger of the two before. Now, he was lethal. Cruel. Dark. Evil. Sam lowered his head to start a fresh batch of tears when a tiny squeak made him catch his breath. 

He moved close enough to peer over Dean’s shoulder. From there, Ylva’s slurps were audible. Her little hands pawed the sprig of fair hair between Dean’s nipples.

“How could you sleep through all that noise? She was howling like…”

Sam kissed Dean’s ear and wiped the moisture from his own cheek. 

“Suburban fairy tale is over,” Dean said.

“I know.”


	19. Chapter 19

“What’s your little brother’s name?”

“Ollie,” Ylva answered.

“I always loved the name Oliver.”

“Olcan,” Dean corrected the woman’s pickup line without turning to look at her. 

His daughter scampered up the row, touching every item she could reach. 

“Stay where I can see you.” 

“K, Daddy.” 

“How old is he?” The woman leaned close to tickle the plump infant strapped to Dean’s chest.

Dean was a quick study. The truth earned him strange looks, so he responded in the ballpark of expectations. “16 months.” 

She cooed at the platinum-haired boy and said, “Handsome, like his dad.” 

There it was.

Dean flicked a false smile. The cereal aisle was empty except for him and this woman. “Ylva?” 

The pick-up artist mimicked his search, but Dean had already left her by the cornflakes. 

“Ylva?!” He passed the clerk. “Anybody see a little girl with dark hair?”

His kid was a busybody, but she wouldn’t run off. 

Dean ran past every aisle, shouting his daughter’s name. Then, following a half-crazed hunch, he burst into the Starbucks next door. 

He yanked the little girl to her feet by the collar of her jacket. Her hazel eyes went wide while the Santa-looking fuck across the table from her watched with indifference.

“What the he— What were you thinking?”

The baby was crying. People were staring. Still, Dean poked a finger at the old man’s beard. “I swear to God, if my kids weren’t here…”

He dragged his daughter from the cafe and didn’t stop fussing, even once they were standing in front of Sam and his precious laptop.

 

***

“Dean, she's a year old.” Sam hoisted Ylva onto his lap.

While she was closer in size and intellectual capacity of a five-year-old, she had a lot to learn.

“Doesn't matter. It only takes once. For something bad to happen.”

“Elly, you understand why Daddy's so upset?”

She nodded and clung to Sam’s neck. 

“And you know it's not okay —“

“To just follow some random stranger out of the store,” Dean yelled. “Not for hot chocolate. Not for anything. You know better!”

“Dean.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy.”

Dean went on panting and pacing like a rage monster. “Yeah? She's sorry now? What about when—“

“Hey.” Sam shook his head. “She’s sorry.”

Dean pressed the baby into Sam’s other arm and took the storm of his anger onto the balcony. 

“Daddy's just upset because he loves you so much.”

Ylva nodded and rested her head on Sam’s shoulder. 

 

***

 

Sam was reading at a bus stop, because:  
1\. they were a one car family   
2\. whoever had the kids had the car  
3\. as long as Dean was still nursing Ollie, he had dibs on both  
4\. Their lives hadn’t changed enough for Dean to like letting Sam behind the wheel of his first baby.

“Hello, Sam.” When the man settled next to him, Sam recognized him from Dean’s description, although the faint lilt to his speech was puzzling.

“Are we acquainted?” he asked without closing his book. 

“Officially, no,” the Kris Kringle look-alike answered. “But I've met your lovely family. Dean is a bit of an acquired taste, isn’t he? But the children are beautiful.”

Sam growled before even thought about it. 

“Your son, I find, especially favors your brother.” The man’s tone made it out to be a friendly observation, but there couldn’t have been a more direct threat.

He and Dean hadn't introduced themselves as brothers in well over a year. They were breaking the law and all sorts of moral taboos with their relationship. If they got caught, their 'beautiful children' were forfeit. 

Underpaid government officials who didn't know the first thing about Ylva and Olcan would take them away and decide where they should live and how they should learn and …

Not to mention what would happen when someone saw how fast they grew. At the rate she was going, Elly would appear to be adolescent by her third birthday. Ollie was even quicker. Veteran moms pegged him at a year and a half when he was only born a month prior. 

“Relax, Sam. I mean no harm. Quite the contrary.” The man said. “We share things in common. Important things.”

“That so?” Sam said, still trying to place the man’s old world accent.

He’d already decided on the least conspicuous attack strategy and how to conceal the body before the bus arrived. Then he and Dean would return after dark to salt and burn it.

“Like you, I am of Lycan-kind, although a much more garden variety breed.” The man’s beard jiggled when he laughed.

Lycan or not, Sam could rip out his throat right there. “What do you want with us?”

“Yes, of course. Emil Broadbeck.” He offered his hand and retracted it when Sam declined civility.

He’d withhold judgment until he had more information. 

 

***

“I don’t care. I ain’t drinking this guy’s Kool-aid, Sam.” Dean pressed the tab on Ollie’s diaper shut and handed him to his papa. “I don't trust it.”

“You don't trust anything.”

“That’s right,” Dean said. “And we stay safe.”

“You trust me?”

“Course, but you aren’t trying to get me to move onto some commune for weird kids.”

“Yes, I am,” Sam said and cradled Ollie to his chest. “I want the Kool-Aid, Dean. Or, I, at least, want to see it for myself.” 

All Dean could manage was to shake his head. Sam had gone all the way off res even talking to this guy. Broadbeak, whatever his name was. It was a trap. It stank like a trap or worse. 

“We can’t do this forever,” Sam said.

“Dad did.”

“Exactly.”


	20. Chapter 20

Dean spent most of the afternoon with Ollie strapped to his back, watching kids practice the metallurgic arts. It was a little bit like being at Hogwarts in the woods. It was safe to assume that Sam and Ylva had camped out at the library.

They'd completed the general tour on the first day. For the last week, they’d spent half of each day with Ylva, sitting in on classes and eating dinners in one of the round stone cabins that housed the families on the compound. 

“So, who pays for all this?” Dean asked as he wiped onion tears from his eyes.

Georgia, the woman of the house, scooped his slices into the pan. “Well, a lot of us still work.”

“Yeah, but, come on. This is acres of land. For that alone, you got to be in someone's pocket.”

Sam squeezed his arm. “What my husband means is—“

“Oh, no. I get it.” Georgia stirred the contents of her soup cauldron, sending a savory fragrance through the cozy kitchen. “I had my qualms at first, too. And honestly my biggest question was, isn't it better for them to grow up out there? To know how to act normal, even if he's not.”

Through the open window, Ylva’s voice rang out, “Ready or not.”

In a game of hide and seek, who would have the greater advantage, his kid or her half-wraith playmate. Dean couldn’t help smile to himself.

According to Broadbeck, the strain of lycanthrope-vampire hybrid that had changed their lives was developed in a lap. Nothing more unpredictable than science. And everything from Sam’s ability to crawl back to the motel after having been infected to Dean’s vigil over the body all the way through had resulted in a mated pair unlike anything the world had seen.  There wasn’t even a word for what they were. 

At the end of the week, they all gathered in a huge, one room hall. The residents sat in a circle. Dean leaned close to Sam and whispered, “Somebody starts singing Kumbayah, I’m out of here.”

There were introductions, bylaws and a full history of the place. 

Dean sat with his hands in his lap letting Sam speak for the family. They hadn’t agreed to join, but Dean had agreed to act as if they would, just to see what came to light.

Not including the Winchesters, they were 58 individuals representing 20 families - 21 votes, including Broadbeck. More than half of the households were lead by single moms. Most of the supernatural mothers were witches. And they were the most loudly opposed to the Winchesters, bickering back and forth as they recalled the brothers’ long list of grievances against the non-human and magic community.

One of them spoke up, “We need more male energy.”

“We most certainly do not.”

“Balance.”

The woman in charge of the meeting tapped a long, gnarled stick on the ground to insist only one person speak at a time.

Sam stood when he was asked to make his final case. He gave Dean a small smile. “All of you know our past. Our history of violence. And in the interest of full disclosure, I still… Last moon, I…”

Santa Broadbeck interrupted, “Can we see a show of hands of those who’ve gone through rehab right here on the grounds?”

Six hands rose.

“The fact is, Sam, you and Dean have exceptional children who deserve better then you and your brother are able to give them alone. Moving every six months, hiding and praying the human authorities never find them. Not to mention Hunters.”

“Before we vote,” the woman in charge spoke up. “A word from your mate.”

All eyes were on him, including Sam’s, so Dean stood. Sam’s hand curled around his and Dean gave it a squeeze. He still wasn’t crazy about the hand-holding thing, but there was a time and place for everything. 

They were in this together or out there together. That’s all that mattered. 

“You massacred four women,” she said. “and you’re fully human.”

Dean had no excuse, no defense, so he took the full brunt of the accusation. He would climb onto the stake if someone offered to burn him. 

“My husband has undergone a tremendous change,” Sam said. “On that night…”

“Rita.” Broadbeck had been sitting with his hands folded on his round belly. “You know full well, no Alpha mate will tolerate competition. He did exactly what Judy, Chris, Arkel - what any one of you would have done in the same situation.”  

No one argued. 

“And it’s important to state that if Sam and Dean do choose to join us, they are one anothers' exclusive mates. That must be respected.”

Sam growled low in his chest. Dean squeezed his hand and whispered, “Easy tiger.”

“Dean Winchester,” the headwoman said. “Do you have anything more to say for yourself or your family.”

“I don't actually want to live here.”

Sam gasped. That was clearly not what he was expecting Dean to say.

“You guys are a bunch of freaks and we were raised to kill creatures like you.”

Quiet murmurs created a tense hum in the place. 

“And now, we’re freaks like you and our children are… well, they’re about as freaky as it comes. All I want is what's best for my family,” Dean said. “If it's to live here, then that's what it is."

“All in favor of the Winchesters joining our numbers?”

Sam squeezed his hand until the knuckles cracked. 

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

“This girl got a name?” Dean asked. 

“Katie Manning.”

“You met the parents?”

“I did,” Sam said and straightened the lace around Ylva’s bun.

  
Sam nods and peeks into the stew. Dean smacks his hand with the spoon.

“So, what's she like. What do you like so much about her?"

“She’s popular, blond beautiful and really sweet,” Ylva said. “She's not a jerk like most of the cheerleaders.”

“You're beautiful, too, you know.” Dean stroked her dark hair.

She rolled her eyes. “She gets good grades and volunteers with special needs kids.”

“Sounds like a dork.”

“Daddy.”

“Well, don’t eat her.”

“Dean!”

“It was a joke,” Dean chuckled. “Have fun.” 

Sam smiled and shook his head. 

“You give her the talk?”

“Dean, it’s a date.”

“You ready to be a grandfather?” Dean asked, and he wasn’t kidding.

“I’ll go over the details again.”

“Be sure you do.” Dean shut the door and returned to the living room where Olcan was putting together a puzzle.

His little brother, John, was growing restless, waiting to be nursed before Dean put him down for the evening. 

By the time Sam returned, the small ones would be curled up together on their mattress, quietly sleeping, except for Johnny, who always howled a little in his dreams.

 

 


End file.
